


Culture Shock

by kitsune



Series: NHLGA [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Dallas Stars, Gen, New York Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune/pseuds/kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valeri Nichushkin hasn't completely adapted to the NHL, but he's working on it. He just has to remember that in the NHL all the goalies are women, and most of them can kick his ass without breaking a sweat. Too bad he just ran over Henrika Lundqvist in her crease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've done as much research as I can via the internet, but if you find any inaccuracies, please feel to point it out (other than the whole goalies aren't actually women thing, which I submit is a problem with your reality, not my fiction). Only one Oiler was harmed in the making of this fic, and I really have nothing against Nail Yakupov, he was just convenient. These aren't even my teams, so apologies to their fans if I've massively mis-characterized anyone.

November 21, 2013 NY Rangers at Dallas

 

_"It's a chilly night here in Dallas as the Stars host the New York Rangers, and even colder here inside the Metroplex. What can we expect to see from these two teams tonight?"_

_"One of the big questions is how Henrika Lundqvist will do. This is a contract year for her, and her play in goal so far has been excellent, but not reflected in wins. The Rangers are looking to break a four game losing streak."_

_"And the Stars?"_

_"Everyone is watching Tyler Seguin. He appears to be fitting in well--can he sustain that, or will he prove that Boston was right to trade him, the kind of talented but toxic player that gets shuffled from team to team at every trade deadline.”_

_"And here come the Rangers onto the ice. Lundqvist scuffs her crease while the Dallas players are announced. She certainly doesn't look worried."_

_"No, it takes a lot to get her going, although she can be explosive when she does, as we've seen in the past." Both men chuckle. "But one of her strengths has always been the calm certainty she exudes in net. It gives her team a lot of confidence when Rika's behind them."_

_"The Queen's in her castle and all's right with the world, eh?"_

_"Absolutely. Kaari Lehtonen is starting for the Stars, and she's settling into her crease as well, while we wait for the national anthem. She was reactivated from injured reserve last month, and is eager to prove she's back to full strength, before Danielle Ellis gets any ideas about the starter job being open."_

 

His first shift on the ice, the puck hit his stick on a blazing pass from his Captain. He slithered between two defensemen, pushing for the net. Just as he put it on his backhand it was stripped away by RickFuckingNash (his English was still pretty shaky but he had a firm grasp of locker room profanity, thank you very much) but momentum carried him to the edge of the crease, showering the goalie with ice chips as he fought to stop clear of the paint. He backed off slightly, hoping to screen her, and turned to look for his team. A roiling mix of teammates and Rangers defensemen was up ice, and the puck miraculously came sliding down to nestle against his skate. He kicked it to his stick and took two strides in: forehand, backhand, and elevate over the pads. The goalie hadn’t dropped into the butterfly though, so he ended up barreling into her. He backed up as soon as he realized it, but went down under a defenseman and the whistle blew. The referee plucked the puck from the goalie’s glove and her glare followed him all the way down the ice.

When he got back to the bench Seguin shifted to make room for him, even if he was shaking his head at him, too. Seryozha on his other side murmured a translation as Seguin said, “Man, that’s not cool. I know they explained the rules, Val. No contact in the crease, except incidental if you’ve got the puck.” Val shifted guiltily on the bench. They had explained things, yes, many, many things, and he was learning as fast as he could. Just, sometimes there was so much to remember, and reflexes honed in the KHL took over. 

Dani, in full goalie gear at the end of the bench except for her mask, crossed her arms and looked at him like he was an idiot. She looked at him like that a lot, though, so he felt justified in ignoring it. 

 

At the TV time out, Lundqvist took off her mask, placed it on top of the net, and skated to the Stars' bench. She leaned on the boards and stared at him. He looked around, at his teammates rapidly edging away on all sides while studiously watching the linesmen lazily skate figure eights on the ice, making it very clear that this was his problem and they had nothing to do with it. Only Seryozha stayed close enough to translate for him under his breath, although he still looked out over the ice as he did it.

The thick, wheat-colored braid circling her head had small wisps of hair disarranged by the mask, and the light behind her turned them into a golden nimbus around her head. With that and her stern features and piercing blue eyes above the bulky pads, she looked like a warrior goddess, and he uneasily remembered that her ancestors had been berserkers. "Little boy," she rumbled, and he was facing the personification of every disapproving mother, aunt, and babushka, all rolled into one. "This is the NHL. You respect the crease, you respect the goalie." She straightened up and pointed at the Captain with her goalie stick. "Explain the facts of life to your rookie. Or we will have another Yakupov." She turned and lumbered back to her crease, putting her mask on and settling half into the net like a particularly malevolent polar bear into a cave. The Rangers on their bench were grinning at each other and exchanging a few high fives, and even the ref who had been hanging out by the benches had a smirk on his face. 

His teammates flowed back into the familiar and comforting shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee bench huddle. "What-", his voice squeaked a little and he cleared his throat. "What happen Yakupov?" The Captain and Seguin exchanged grimaces in a "you tell him" "no, you tell him" kind of way, but then the timeout was over and they needed to hit the ice, so Seguin just punched him in the arm and told him to search for ‘Lundqvist Yakupov’ on YouTube. 

Lundqvist was magnificent for the rest of the game, and each shift made a point of chirping him about it. He hunched his shoulders and focused on the puck, hearing yet another variation of, "Thanks for pissing off Lundqvist," muttered behind him. 

As they left the ice after the loss, heading for the players' locker room, Kaari paused before the corridor to the goalies' room. As a Finn she usually felt it was her patriotic duty to not speak Russian to him, and she only knew a few standard phrases and curse words anyway. But she made exceptions every now and then, and today as he filed by with the others she smacked the back of his head and said in Russian, "Asshole". 

He flushed and spread his hands, wishing he hadn't already handed off his helmet, gloves, and stick to the equipment crew. He felt defenseless. He stuttered out in English, "I know. I'm sorry. Tell her?"

Kaari rolled her eyes and grumbled, "Not your messenger girl." He had no trouble understanding that, as it had been translated many times before. There had been a hint of resignation in her voice, though, so he had hopes that she’d pass it along. She waddled down the hallway, and at the end of it he could just make out another bulky figure, in Ranger's colors, headed for the same door. He winced and sped for the safety of the players' room; the last thing he needed today was to encounter Lundqvist off the ice as well.

 

He sat in his stall and concentrated on unlacing his skates, head down. There was the usual game discussion, translated as needed when it concerned him. Several people felt the need to mention League rules regarding contact with goalies until Seguin finally stood up. 

"Hey," he said, "give Val a fucking break. It’s different than what he’s used to, and it's hard to change everything at once, even if you’re trying to do better. Cut him a little slack, OK?”

The Captain raised both brows at Seguin, and they stared at each other for a moment, before he said mildly, “Guess you’d know.” 

Val said earnestly. “I know. Sorry.”

The Captain clapped Val on the back and said, “Seriously, Val, just don’t do it again. You got off pretty easy this time.”

When everyone had showered and were wandering around in various states of undress, Val approached Seguin. "Yakupov on phone?” he asked hopefully. “No home internet.” 

Seguin heaved an enormous sigh, but obediently pulled out his phone and found the video.

Seguin handed the phone to Val and pressed the triangle for 'play'. It was obviously an NHL game, the Rangers and Oilers on the ice. The announcers were talking too rapidly for him to follow, but what happened on the ice needed no translation. He saw Nail Yakupov lift a Ranger stick to steal the puck and head for the net like a homing pigeon. A defenseman poked the puck away at the last second, so when Yakupov got to the net he didn’t have it, but he didn’t make any effort to avoid crashing into Lundqvist and both went down. The whistle was blown and Yakupov was pulled roughly off Lundqvist by some Rangers. One gave him a shove to get him out of the way, and as he skated off, he called something back over his shoulder. Something very rude, evidently, from the expressions of the Rangers who were helping their goalie to her feet and handing her her stick. The effect on Lundqvist was electrifying, as she tore off her mask and threw it in the goal, then charged across the ice to Yakupov, trailing Rangers players like red and blue ducklings. Six feet of enraged goalie grabbed the back of his jersey with one hand and dragged him down to sprawl across her thigh, going to one padded knee as she did so. Val nodded to himself. Goalies had a tremendously low center of gravity, and you did not want to get in any kind of wrestling match with one. With Yakupov awkwardly on his knees and against her leg, one hand still gripping his jersey, Lundqvist lifted her goalie stick and smacked him sharply across the ass with it, twice. Given the amount of padding and protection everyone wore he probably barely felt the blows, but the humiliation would sting far worse. Lundqvist contemptuously gave the player a shove to get him off her leg, and skated back to her net. She picked up her mask and pulled it firmly over her head, settling herself in with an attitude Val recognized from today. 

On the video the entire arena was laughing at Yakupov, and even a few Oilers seemed to be suppressing smiles, while down at the other end of the ice Devan Dubnyk touched her stick to her mask in a salute of goalie solidarity. The referee whistled for attention, and they all shuffled into face-off position. The video ended there, and Val looked up. “I’m lucky,” he said. Seguin laughed and tousled his hair.

“Not as bad as Yakupov. And you won’t do it again. Of course, neither will Nail.”

Val struggled to ask his question in the fewest English words that would still get him an answer. “Lundqvist penalty?”

Seguin turned his phone off and tucked it in a pocket. “No. That was a little extreme, but most refs will give goalies some leeway. If the goalie does it herself it’s one and done. Otherwise her team will pick fights all night.” He caught Val’s confusion and simplified it for him. “Goalie business.”

Since “goalie business” was the excuse for every weird thing goalies did or had happen to them, even in the KHL, Val nodded. 

 

He lay in bed that night, sleepily running through the game in his mind. Things he could have done better, faster, more accurately. Things that were never going to happen again. All players were convinced that goalies gossiped, no matter how often Kaari and Dani insisted that the goalie locker room had no conversation other than on the subject of what music to play, and how good or bad the water pressure was. He didn’t want to piss off the sisterhood of the NHLGA; he had a feeling the NHLPA didn’t look kindly on that, especially from rookies.

He resolved to make Seryozha get him a bottle of the really good vodka and send it to Lundqvist with a note in his best handwriting. He wondered who she’d share it with, and fell asleep to the memory of a ruthless competitor with golden hair and fierce eyes. Maybe next time they played the Rangers he’d ask if she had a little sister who played hockey, too.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goalie business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miriam demanded to know what, if anything, Lehtonen said to Lundqvist, so here you go, dear. Thanks to **tahanrien** for the info about Val crashing the net.

Rika had handed over her stick and gloves as the team left the ice, but retained her mask. It had nothing to do with superstition, just a sensible preference for carrying it herself when they weren't playing at home. The equipment guys would pack it when they came to clear the locker room of the rest of the gear.

Ahead of her she saw Kaari hustle down the hall and dart through the locker room door, as much as a woman wearing 40 pounds of gear _could_ be said to hustle and dart. She wondered why, but it was obvious as she herself opened the door and Wagner's _Ride of the Valkyries_ thundered out. She slammed the door behind her and glared at Kaari, who grinned and was already reaching for her phone as Rika said, "Turn that shit off."

Home team picked the music before the game, winner picked the music after, so Kaari detached her phone from the speaker with a chuckle and sat to remove her skates and jersey. Rika carefully placed her mask on the shelf and dug out her travel ipod. A few swipes and taps brought up the playlist helpfully titled "Winner", and she plugged in the speaker. The familiar rhythms of rock guitar and drums soothed her and she exchanged nods with Ellis, who was already halfway into her street clothes, earphones in, head bopping. From the gear strewn in the other stall it looked like Cam was in the shower.

Kaari said conversationally, "I think you scared our Russian baby." Rika grunted and pulled off her jersey. The third period had been non-stop. A fun game, up and down with an assist for her and a win at the end, but hard work, and she'd sweated like a horse. She tossed it into the hamper on her side of the room and grabbed a Gatorade before sitting down to unlace her skates.

"This isn't the KHL. The sooner they learn that the better."

Kaari stacked her pads on the bench and pulled off the skin-tight UnderArmour, which went into the hamper on her side. In her bra and panties she stretched up, arms reaching to the ceiling, then bending over to put her palms on the carpet to stretch her hamstrings. As she straightened she said, "He's trainable. And you better be careful." She grinned slyly as she stepped out of her underwear and tossed the sports bra on top on her way to the showers.

Struggling with her own UnderArmour, which didn't want to peel off sweaty skin, Rika didn't feel like playing Kaari's games . Once she'd wrestled the clothing off she stripped down the rest of the way and grabbed her toiletries to follow her to the showers. Cam passed her going the other way, so at least the shower wouldn't be crowded. "What's your point?" she demanded, dialing the water up as hot as it would go.

Washing her hair, Kaari said, "He was about 70% scared and 30% turned on. You could be his rookie crush. Show him the right way to do…everything."

Rika snorted. "Robbing the cradle? I don't think so." She turned her back to the hot stream of water and sighed with pleasure as it beat on tight muscles. "You have such good water pressure here."

"Mmm," Kaari agreed, water sluicing over her face. She shifted and bent her head so it rained down on the back of her neck. "I wish my house had plumbing like this. So I can tell him you won't hunt him down to make a cup out of his skull?"

Rika turned off the water and grabbed a towel. "As long as he stays out of my crease I don't care what he does."

Wrapping a towel around her hair in a turban, Kaari said dryly, "You'll care when he scores on you. And to be fair, most of the time it's the d-men pushing him in."

Rika was done with this conversation. They'd won, game over, rookie chastised, time to go. She finished braiding her wet hair and swiftly pinned it in a coil on the back of her head. A cashmere jacket went over the silk blouse and tailored pants, and she stepped into soft leather flats; the ipod was turned off and tucked back in her bag. She needed to get to the players' room and join Cam and the boys for some quality team gloating, so she just said, "If he's not stupid, there's no problem. Good game." She held out a fist and Kaari shook her head but bumped her own fist against it. Because she was still an asshole, though, she put the Wagner back on and it followed Rika out of the room.

 

A week later a very nice bottle of Russian vodka was delivered by an amused front office intern, accompanied by a short, apologetic note in boyish writing. She laughed a little but mentally gave him a bonus point for good manners. He'd be just fine in the NHL.


End file.
